by Bill Cameron
“No, no. I’m the ace. I’m the card up the sleeve.” He shifts against the tree and I see he’s got his other hand stuffed in the pocket of his zip-up hoodie. He sees where I’m looking and pulls out a gun, sloppy grin on his face.
“Where did you get that?”
But I know. Not an S&W 500, not a Python. Big enough though, .357, late of Mitch and Luellen’s kitchen, I’ve no doubt. I reach out to take it from him, but he holds on with surprising strength. “No. Got a job. I’m the ace.”
“Eager, I don’t know what you’re talking about—” He swivels his head, peers up the hill through the shadows. Voices trickle down from above, the sound broken by trees and falling rain.
“They’re bad.”
“Who?”
“I gotta stop ‘em.”
“Eager, don’t be ridiculous. We need to get the police.”
He shakes his head, tries to lift the gun again. “No time.”
I don’t want to, but I believe him. I’ve seen too much already; Myra, Big Ed, the stranger with the hole in his head. I can’t make out the words from above, but the anger is unmistakable. I guess they’re at the top, south end of the summit near the Harvey Scott statue. Not far from where Michael Masliah found Eager and the Tabor Doe three years earlier.
“Who’s up there, Eager?”
He rolls his head, tries to look. He coughs. The gun slips out of his hand. Someone shouts, someone else screams. A man, a woman, I can’t be sure. “Is it Luellen?”
His head yaws. “Yeah. Luellen.”
“And Danny’s grandfather?”
“Grandpa and some dude with a gun. They want Danny.”
“Danny ran away.”
The crazy grin fades and he closes his eyes. His swollen orb won’t quite shut. A red bubble seems to press against his eyelid. “She’s still okay only as long as they don’t got Danny.”
“What do you think you’re going to do, Eager?”
He pushes the gun toward me. “S’prise them. They don’t know about me. I’m the ace.”
I try to make sense of what I’m hearing. The ace in the hole? ... Eager? He comes out of the woods with the gun, unexpected, and changes the balance of power. At least, that’s what he thinks he’s gonna do, though whether or not he can would be an open question even if he wasn’t crumpled half-dead at the foot of a tree.
“Eager, you can’t just walk up to a man and shoot him.”
“Have to. You fucked it up. Now I gotta fix it.”
“Eager, damn it ...”
“You supposed to take care of her, protect her. That’s why I told her to buy the house, cuz you would make sure she was okay.”
“Jesus.” I press my fingers to my eyes.
“You thought I was casing the joint. But I never went in for house prowls.” He laughs again. “You were supposed to protect her. Now I gotta. But I can’t lift the gun.”
“Eager—”
“They’re bad people.”
Up the hill, the shouting continues as the rain falls and my feet sink into the mud. Eager pushes the gun toward me and I pick it up. Heavy. It’s been a while since I held a gun.
“Eager, how long have you known Luellen?”
“A while.”
“How long?”
“Whole time, I guess. Since the day she got to town.”
“And when was that, exactly?”
He rolls his head downhill. His next words are mumbled.
“Speak up, Eager.”
“You know.”
I have no idea what’s going on, but there’s already a man face down in mud, a boy lost in the woods, and too many questions without answers. If Luellen is up there, if the stranger with the brain injury is up there, if there really is a man who’ll kill for a little boy, what are my choices?
Eager stares at me, bulging eye like a boil.
“Remember that day we met, Skin?”
“Eager, come on.”
“Seriously. Remember it?”
I sigh. I have to figure out a way to get help, find Danny. It’s all bigger than I am. “Of course. Crazy day.”
He moves his head side-to-side, a slow-motion negation. “Not that day.”
It takes me a moment to realize what day he means. “Out in front of my house. You were on your board, I was putting out the recycling.”
“I was lookin’ for you. Found you. Now you found me.” He laughs his strangled laugh. “Full circle, my girl would say.”
“We have to get the police, Eager.”
“No.” His voice finds sudden strength “Can’t be any police.” I know why Eager doesn’t want cops, and not just because he’s a thief and a scammer. He was a cop. I wonder if it would matter if he knew about Big Ed down the hill. Probably not. Other thoughts are bouncing around in Eager’s mind, clanking pinballs of certainty. There is too much I don’t know, too much Eager couldn’t explain even if he was able to form a coherent thought.
Yet here under the trees in the rain and the dark he’s been trying to make me understand. The house across the street. Mitch and Luellen’s house. I was supposed to protect her, he said. It’s with a dull shock I finally recognize the bridge of trust Eager tried to build between us. Not just a punk messing with the head of the cop too dumb to catch him, but a kid who looked at me and somehow saw a man who would do the thing he was unable to do.
Is it possible to fail at a task you didn’t know was yours to begin with? Looking into Eager’s focusless eyes and blood-drained flesh, I see the answer. I’ve grown blind and bitter, congratulating myself for babysitting a four-year-old, all the while unaware his mother looked to me as her guardian. And where is Danny now? Lost in the woods, hunted by a savage tweaker and faceless figures out of the inscrutable past of a girl who, unbeknownst to me, put her faith in me.
I lean back on my haunches. I’d like to believe it wasn’t always like this. I’d like to believe Ruby Jane saw something greater in me when she accepted, for the briefest moment, my fumbling advance. Can I become a Skin who doesn’t fear his own imagined irrelevance? Accept the charge given to me by Eager Gillespie, dipshit stray, enigma, man-child with a gun? Can I find my way out of the dark?
The voices above flicker through the trees, bitter motes and fear and rage. I grasp Eager’s icy shoulder, and for a second his focus clears.
“Someone’s coming.” His good eye blinks.
“Who?”
He breathes, a gasp. I don’t think he has many more in him. “It’s time, dude. Don’t worry about me. Help my girl.”
“Eager, please hang in there.”
But he slumps. The last thing he says to me is a faint whisper. “The only problem with being dead is it lasts such a fucking long time.”
The young bastard has become who I wish I could be before my eyes.
November 19 - 4:42 pm
Wade into the Storm
This is what I must do: acknowledge who I can never be again, accept what I am. Older than dried shit, sick as last month’s soup. Hanging by a thread in an empty house, working in a coffee shop to make rent after a life behind a badge. In love with a woman young enough to be my daughter, wise enough to by my mother. Every joint hurts. Every nerve is a frayed wire. I’m out of time and fading fast, with nowhere to go but down. Fresh out of illusions.
The bodies are piling up. I can smell Eager’s blood and vomit along with mud and wet fir needles. A little boy is lost in the dark. Luellen is up the hill, her and others. Grandpa, his man, maybe Myra. I look up through the trees into the amber glow of dusk and dream I have one last gasp in me. Maybe, just maybe, I can get to my feet, climb up out of the shreds of my life, and do something worth remembering.
Did you kiss me because of how you feel about me, or because you’ve lost faith in who you are?
I draw a breath, heave myself upright.
Breathe ...
breathe ...
breathe.
“Ruby Jane.” I speak to the weighty, indifferent clouds. Streaks of red v
ein the sky at the horizon. “I hope I’ve found the way past myself.”
I wade into the storm.
November 19 - 4:37 pm
Sheath of Overdeveloped Contractile Tissue
Big Ed remembered three things from his last visit to Mount Tabor: pulling the trigger, falling to the ground with his arm flapping like a roadhouse skank’s tongue, and seeing the girl run off through the trees with the baby. Somewhere in there he lost the gun. Somewhere in there the skate punk picked it up and then— Christ in a Cheeto—shot him like some kinda of vermin.
Grasping his numb throat, he’d staggered off, somehow convinced he could still finish the assignment. Along the hillside through the rain-soaked trees. Then he heard shouting, saw the flashing lights. Fucking cops arrived before anyone could even know what went down. His bearings lost, he climbed as best he could until he came out at the road that circled the summit. The light was viscous and grey, but he could make out the form of the cop and the kid on the ground in front of the patrol car. The boy sat silent and staring at the girl on the ground in front of the statue, face down and unmoving. Big Ed’s gun, who knew where the fuck.
Only two pieces of good news in the whole goddamn mess. He was still alive and the gun couldn’t be traced to him. Maybe it shot one person, maybe it shot two. Maybe it shot a dozen before Big Ed took it off that toothless lemon dropper. Didn’t matter. No longer his problem. He stumbled back into the trees until he found a path down to the parking area. Soaked to the skin by the time he reached his car, but that was all right. Rain meant no one had seen him shoot the girl, and no one would see him when he got into his car, drove straight to the highway, and set his compass south. He could tell any story he wanted.
Once behind the wheel, he turned the rearview mirror to check out his neck. Blood and jagged flaps of skin, a sucking sound he hadn’t noticed over the rat-a-tat of falling rain. He probed the damage with his bloody fingertips. The punk had hurt him bad. But it would be days before he’d learn he would never speak with his own voice again.
Three years ago.
Some things don’t change, some change a lot. Hawthorne Avenue looked much the same as he remembered it. There were small differences, places gone he couldn’t quite remember, places new he didn’t recognize. But the obvious landmarks were still there. The movie theatre with the pub, the tchotchke stores and granolamuncher restaurants. The Ship Shop was a UPS Store now, but the coffee house was still there, joined by a new one just a few blocks up the street. First thing when he got to town he stopped in, ordered himself a latte. Hiram would give him shit if he knew, but the soreness had never left his throat, and warm milk soothed on the way down. Wasn’t like Westbank didn’t have its own espresso shop. He’d enjoyed his latte, then found the Bronsteins, right where Myra said they’d be.
Big Ed no longer worked out like he had back in his playing days. Been a long time since he’d hit the gym five days a week, run every morning, and played pick-up basketball in between—good for agility, basketball, especially for a big man. But if those days were long past, Big Ed still deserved the name. If Hiram needed you to throw hay, you threw hay. If he needed you to beat down some puffed-up beaner who thought he could organize the day laborers, you beat down a beaner. He hadn’t run in years, but between Hiram’s business and the free weights in his apartment, Ed had maintained most of his bulk and all of his strength. Layers of muscle protected his cervical spine. When the blue-clad man appeared from among the tree and pulled him to the ground, he’d failed to crack Big Ed’s neck by dint of a sheath of overdeveloped contractile tissue. A smaller man, a weaker man, a man more soft fat than dense muscle might be paralyzed now. Or dead.
He wasn’t dead, but he almost wished he was. He awoke face down in a river of mud. For a moment he thought nothing was wrong. He felt no pain, just a chill in his hands and feet and a wet itch up and down his legs. A good itch. He knew where the man’s knee had struck and he knew what such a blow could do. The itch and the chill meant he still had intact nerve fibers between his brain and limbs.
Then he tried to lift his head. Pain speared up his back and reached around to grab him by the jaw. He tried to scream, but managed only a huff, hardly a sound at all. His head dropped back into the muck. Silty fluid flowed over his teeth and into his nose and he spluttered. He couldn’t close his mouth, something fucked about his jaw.
When the pain receded, fire to molten earth, he tried rolling rather than pushing. Got onto his side, watched the rain flow past as he gathered his strength for another attempt. He pressed his hand into the mud, gulped sodden air as the spear pierced his back once more. Somewhere behind him he heard a clatter of stones like running footsteps. Fear of his attacker fueled a surge onto his hands and knees, then to his feet. He turned in a slow circle. He saw the Caddy above on the spur, doors standing open and interior lights on, no sign of Myra or the babysitter. No sign of the leverage. No sign of the man in blue.
How did he get here, four hundred miles from a lock-down ward in a zombie asylum? Near as anyone could tell the bastard didn’t even think actual thoughts. All he did was hiss, drool, and piss himself. And yet, somehow, he’d strolled out of the woods here on Mount Tabor and all but killed Big Ed in his tracks.
He ran a hand over his bristly hair, wincing. There was only one thing for it now—they had to get away. Leave Portland, return to Givern Valley and ride out whatever storm happened to chase them south. Everything had gone wrong. Same as always. Big Ed had been given a simple task, had nearly blown it when the leverage escaped the car this morning. He’d redeemed himself, he thought, when he followed the babysitter into the man’s back yard. All fucking day he followed him, Myra bitching the whole time, but he found the boy. Then this, right out of the woods. And now Myra was gone, their leverage fled. If he were another man, Big Ed might attempt to flee himself. Follow Myra’s lead and run like hell. He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but the failing light told him the leverage had plenty of time to get away. Which left him with the choice of facing Hiram’s wrath or going to ground, all six-foot-scarred-throat-robot-talking-five of him. Yeah, that would work. Big Ed would be lucky to live out the week.
Still.
What else could he do? He’d been Hiram’s man for so long he didn’t know how to be anything else. And maybe he could make the old man understand one more time.
For fuck’s sake, Hiram, has the goddamn party started yet?
His legs didn’t want to cooperate, but somehow he picked up one foot, then the other. The rain followed him downslope. At the loop drive, he stopped and gazed across the derby track to the reservoir. The water reflected the mustard glow of the lampposts and light from houses along the edge of the park. The little boy might be in any one of those houses by now, awaiting the arrival of cops. He wandered out of the park, Officer, wet and alone. Big Ed would never escape Hiram so easily.
He crossed the road and climbed, winding up the hill as darkness thickened around him. The forested slopes chattered with falling rain. He flinched at every movement, the sway of a branch, the glint of city glow on rainwater tumbling through the undergrowth. His neck and back were a lattice of pain, his feet throbbed and his thighs raged against every step. The hillside seemed to groan around him, or perhaps he heard only his own nerves strained to their tensile limits inside his head. He shuddered and pushed on, only realized he was nearing the top when he spied the gleam of a lamppost ahead. He topped a rocky shoulder and found himself on a broad natural terrace sloping up to a steep, grassy bank. At the top, he could see a concrete curb illuminated by the lamppost. A short flight of steps, a dozen or fewer, climbed from the muddy terrace to the road bounding the summit. Hiram would be just beyond, waiting near the statue. Expecting his leverage.
Big Ed paused. His tongue felt swollen in his hanging jaw. How could he face the old man, having failed yet again? How could he tell Hiram of the one who’d appeared like a ghost from the trees to unravel all their plans?
A voice cried o
ut above, the girl—had to be. Stuart’s bitch. A deeper voice answered, gravelly and edged with menace. Hiram. Big Ed could only imagine the conversation, the pleading and the threats. Ed knew they were waiting for him, anger and fear thickening in the air around them like soup. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to take the last few steps. He hung poised on a blade’s edge, unable to fall to either side, wanting to be cut in half. Then he heard a grunt and turned his head.
The ugly ex-cop was moving along the bank in the shadows midway between two lampposts. Big Ed inhaled through his gaping mouth, felt his chest and neck swell. The old guy paused, his head level with the curb. He cocked his head, listening maybe, a hesitation long enough for Big Ed to close the distance. At the last moment, he seemed to sense the approaching presence and turned. Too late. Big Ed drove a fist between his shoulder blades. The force of the blow sent a stab of pain through Ed’s back and neck. The ex-cop dropped, groaning, and tried to crawl away. Big Ed hit him again, this time aiming for the kidney. Then Ed grasped him below the collar and tossed him up the bank. The old man flopped over, no heavier than a wet towel. Lift, slam, lift, slam. Each time the bastard’s body struck the bank, wind rushed out of him. Despite his own snarling agony, Big Ed wanted to laugh. Felt so damn good to whale on the mouthy fucker.
When the cop finally stopped wriggling around, Ed pawed though his clothes. Found .357 revolver, almost familiar in its heft. The gun surprised him, but also filled him with a crazy euphoria. A gun, now, after everything. Where the fucker found it between the Cadillac and this hilltop Ed had no idea. But it only added to the sudden power he felt. He tucked the gun into his belt and grabbed the old man’s collar again. He was gonna enjoy explaining to Mister You-Don’t-Have-To-Do-This the way the world really worked. Hiram Spaneker awaited his due. Ex-pork belly didn’t want to tell them where to look for the kid, the no-bodies rule was out the fucking door.
He dragged the old man up the bank and across the curb, digging for the larynx in his belt pouch, then each coat pocket. He felt the gun, felt Myra’s car keys. He stopped on the edge of the pavement, patting himself like a man trying to put out a fire. Across the summit drive he saw the statue, recognized the trio gathered in its shadow. His steely glee deflated. The electrolarynx was gone. George the Flea wasn’t.